Arcobaleno
by Morte Lise
Summary: Luche often wished she'd had another option. Forcing seven of the most powerful and eccentric individuals in the mafia world to deal with one another for months at a time? A sure recipe for disaster.
1. All Encompassing Sky

So I'm probably either insane or an idiot for starting this right as the TYL arc ends and Reborn is probably on the verge of telling the actual backstory, but OH WELL, I did it anyway.

Unfortunately, what with all the flashbackery, there'll probably be several OC's in this, but I swear on my life that the Arcobaleno are the focus.

And why not? They're too much fun not to be.

Also foreshadowing! Foreshadowing for everyone! (And constructive criticism would be much appreciated.)

* * *

_All-Encompassing Sky_

Luche had one monster of a headache. It clamped down on the nape of her neck like a vice, pressed behind her eyeballs, and filled every square inch between her temples with miasmic, sickening agony as the Trinisette shrieked its warnings of destruction and desolation, urgent and endless.

Her ears were ringing. She hadn't eaten since her doom-ridden premonitions had started, two days earlier. Sleep was completely out of the question.

Luche sighed, closed her eyes briefly, and relaxed her face into a pleasant smile, trying her best to ignore both the Trinisette's continuous flashes of apocalyptic disaster and the feelings of discontent radiating from her fellow Mafia bosses.

"Gentlemen," she said sweetly, beaming around at the four men assembled at the table. "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you all here today."

Agosto of the Calcassa family cut straight to the chase. "What the fuck, Luche!" he roared, slamming his massive fists on the table. "We're Mafia dons, not housewives, we got plenty of shit we should be taking care of and better places to be right now. If you're gonna be calling last minute meetings like this, the reason better be damn well important!"

A scepter smashed down on the knuckles of Agosto's right hand, causing him to snatch it up with a sharp cry. Timoteo of the Vongola family flashed Agosto a mild-mannered smile.

"I don't think Luche was quite finished, Agosto," Timoteo said, tapping his fingers meaningfully on his flame-wreathed weapon. He nodded to her. "You were saying?"

The look of gratitude Luche gave the Vongola Ninth was genuine. "Thank you, Timoteo. The matter I'd like to discuss today, gentlemen, concerns your collective investment in the Trinisette."

The atmosphere of the room immediately chilled. Timoteo's mouth thinned, and Agosto turned red, on the verge of a second explosion. On the other side of the table, Santo of the Estraneo family's eyes went wide in shock as Wen of the Nero family slumped down in his chair, face drained of color.

"I have reason to believe the Trinisette is in danger, and I'd like your collective support in protecting it. I take it you've all heard of the Arcobaleno?" Luche continued, clasping her own hands tighter in her lap. She'd hoped it would never come to this. She'd had nightmares that it would come to this.

"Oh, hell no," Agosto snapped, standing up in his seat and—after a nervous glance at Timoteo—placing his hands gently back on the table. "You rob me of one of my men, Luche, I want some kinda compensation. This ain't fair."

"Unfortunately," said Santo, looking grim and resigned, "it's quite fair, Agosto. There is not a family in our alliance that hasn't agreed to lend unconditional aid in the case of a Trinisette emergency. The Giglio Nero family may be its guardian, but we've all been reaping its benefits for generations."

He glanced at Wen. "I must question the Nero family's involvement, though, Luche. They're a bit new to the game to have been involved in that agreement, aren't they? And I can't help but recall that they were part of your own family not so long ago."

Luche fought to keep her expression neutral. Santo had always been a bit too sharp for her liking.

Agosto seized on to this idea like a drowning man. "That's right!" he shouted. "The hell are you trying to pull? Stacking the odds against us by including your chink offshoot—"

Wen's chair screeched along the floor as he shot up, his expression incredulous as he whirled on the Calcassa don. "The Nero family is independent!" he said, accent thickening with indignant anger. "We have proven this and our connection to that woman is no greater than yours!"

"Bullshit!" Agosto said, lips drawn back in a snarl as he glared at the Chinese Mafioso.

Wen scowled back. "The Nero family has not been involved with the Giglio Nero family in years. We are the only Mafia connection to Asia and we deserve a part in this as much as you!"

"It's true," said Timoteo, gesturing for both men to back down. He glanced at Luche. "You're after that assassin of theirs, aren't you?"

Luche nodded, resisting the urge to either crawl in a hole and die or bash her head against the table until the pain stopped. She'd expected the negotiations to go this badly, but it didn't make her feel any better to know she'd been right. Wen gaped at her.

"You…you want to take Fon?" he asked faintly. "But he's the best we have! What kind of deal is this?"

Agosto smirked in satisfaction. Santo eyed her expectantly. Luche sighed.

"You'll get him back," she said wearily. She smiled at Agosto and Santo. "You'll all get them back, and with the abilities of an Arcobaleno to boot. That's a significant fraction of the Trinisette's power guaranteed to every single one of you. All I ask is that you lend them to me for a bit so I can complete the ritual."

"Who do you want?" Santo asked, sitting up straighter and adjusting his thin spectacles.

"Viper would be the ideal candidate." She turned to Agosto. "And I'd like Skull if he's still working under you."

Agosto snorted. "Skull? Really? That clown's all you want?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, sure, why not."

Wen still looked apprehensive. "You will give him back?"

"Of course," Luche said. She felt her lips wobble. How much longer was she going to have to keep up this stupid charade?

"How long?" Wen asked, and the smile dropped off Luche's face.

Damn it. She'd known someone would ask eventually, but she'd hoped they wouldn't think of it until they'd all calmed down a bit, or hell, if she'd been really lucky, outright agreed. There was no way this was going over well.

"Two. Perhaps three. Two and a half is the most likely," she said, fidgeting.

"Months, right?" said Agosto with a sneer.

"Years," she muttered. Immediately the table was in an uproar again, Wen, Agosto and Santo all on their feet and up in arms. Her eyes met Timoteo's, the calm in the storm, and she saw his fingers curl around the scepter again.

Thank God for the Vongola family.

"Gentlemen," Timoteo said, his voice uncharacteristically cold as he rose to meet the other three Mafia bosses, the Dying Will flame flickering in his hand. "It's rather rude to interrupt a lady, isn't it?"

The others went silent, eyes drawn to the flame like particularly suicidal moths. Luche quietly reminded herself that the sight was in no way amusing or satisfying. She cleared her throat, and all three men jumped.

Well. Maybe it was a little satisfying.

"The Arcobaleno are more than simply guardians of the Trinisette," she explained after the others had all taken their seats. "They are one with its energy. No human being can endure such a union without preparation. The years they will spend with me are meant to prepare them for the final transformation. That's all."

She gave them a moment to process the information.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to rush you," she said, spreading her hands out on the table and giving them a warm smile. "Just give me their reply within the month, and I'll arrange a meeting date when I have them all. Should any of them decline, I won't hold it against you, but I'd appreciate it if you'd help me find a replacement."

Santo nodded, seemingly satisfied with the proposal.

"At the very least, I can ask," he said, standing once more, "although I can't guarantee Viper. Vittore's quite attached to his protégé, and I can't see him letting go of him for all of two years without a fight." He offered Luche his hand. "I'll do what I can."

She shook it gratefully. "Thank you, Santo."

Agosto shifted in his seat, tapping his fingers on the table and watching the Estraneo boss discreetly exit the room. "Just Skull, right?"

"Just Skull," Luche confirmed.

Agosto threw up his hands. "Ah, fine. Why not. S'not like he did much anyway." He stood up to leave and snapped his fingers as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, what about that creepy lab rat you got. He on the list?"

Luche felt herself tense. "Verde, you mean?" The mere thought of the scientist made her headache triple in intensity.

Agosto grinned. "Yeah, that's the one. Great guy. Makes toys I've never seen anywhere else."

"Why do you ask?" Luche snapped. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Clearly the pain was finally getting to her, she was never this short tempered. Then again, talk of Verde usually helped with that.

Agosto shrugged. "Guy does business with anyone. I was just wondering if I needed a new tech dealer when this Arcobaleno business gets rolling."

Agosto was planning something. Luche could practically see the gears turning in the massive man's head, the devious grin he was struggling to keep off his face. She began massaging her temples. She was in no mood to deal with it at the moment.

"Yes. Yes he is," she answered finally, and Agosto's face broke out into a huge smile.

"All right then. Thanks." He lumbered out of the room. Luche resisted the urge to throw something after him before turning to the room's two remaining occupants.

Wen slumped in his chair, still caught in indecision. Timoteo reached across the table and patted the other man's shoulder.

"Just say yes," the Vongola boss advised. "The benefits far outweigh the drawbacks, and whatever hardships should befall your family in those two or three years, you can count on the support of the Vongola."

"And the Gilgio Nero," Luche added quickly, seizing the opportunity Timoteo had given her. "Just because you've chosen to separate yourself from us doesn't mean we need not help one another, after all."

Wen smiled weakly at the pair of them. "Much obliged. I'll be sure to at least ask him. But I am not certain he will say yes." He stood and bowed. "I will let you know either way."

They watched him leave in silence.

"You look terrible," Timoteo said after the door had clicked shut, eyes wide in earnest concern. Without the aura of authority and his Dying Will flame, Luche noted wryly, her mild-mannered friend hardly looked the part of a Mafia boss. "When was the last time you slept?"

Luche groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Tell me, does your wonderful Hyper Intuition ever give you this sort of trouble?"

Timoteo chuckled. "What, you mean the horrifying nightmares and constant migraines? I can't say I've ever been graced with any because of my Intuition, but you'd be surprised at the muscles one strains after several hours of fighting with the Dying Will flame."

Luche rummaged around in her purse for some aspirin and washed them down with the glass of water she'd been nursing throughout the impromptu conference. "I think the world is going to end," she told the glass morosely.

There was an awkward pause as the news sunk in.

Timoteo gaped at her in shock before grabbing her hand, eyes wild. "How?" he asked. "When?"

Luche laughed despite the ringing pain in her skull and shook her head. "It's nothing our generation will have to worry about, in all likelihood. I'd say we have a good thirty, forty years, and by then all the current bosses will be old and senile." She poked at his sleeve. "Possibly even you, Timoteo."

He only tightened his grip, expression grave. "This isn't funny, Luche."

She sighed. "No, it's not. Something is going to try to seize control of the Trinisette, and frankly I'm not certain even thirty years is enough time for the Arcobaleno to be able to prevent it." She reclaimed her hand and rested her head in her arms. "My sight is limited. There's only so much I can do."

She felt Timoteo's hand settle in her hair, fluffing it and combing it like he'd done so many times when they were children. "It'll be enough," he reassured her gently. "And whatever you need of me, I'll give to you."

Luche closed her eyes and steeled herself. "I need Reborn."

The hand stilled, and she heard him inhale sharply. "Oh," he said. The hollowness in his voice made her stomach sink. Luche bit her lip.

"And Lal Mirch," she added quickly. "Reborn and Lal. Lal's still with the Vongola, right? Or has she finally committed to Comsubin?"

Timoteo said nothing. Luche squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

"Please, Timoteo. There's no one better for the job, you know that."

The hand left her hair. "Two years, you said?"

"Two or three," she said, opening her eyes and sitting up. Timoteo looked pensive. She didn't push him. Pressuring Santo or Wen was one thing, and frankly Agosto was a colossal bastard, but Timoteo had always been the closest thing she'd had to an older brother.

"That's more than fair," said Timoteo finally, giving her a forced smile. He patted her on the head again, mussing her hair into disarray. "After all, who can I trust if not my darling little cushion hat queen?"

Luche growled good-naturedly and swatted his hand away. "Why do you think I wear it all the time?" she asked, dragging her fingers through the tangles he'd created. "Today's the first meeting I've gone without it in months, and you've already assaulted my hair."

Timoteo only laughed, breaking the tension between them, and Luche smacked him with the brush she'd pulled out to undo the damage. He jabbed her with the scepter in response, and Luche sternly reminded herself that they'd have to put a stop to this before someone burst into the room and got the wrong idea. She dumped the remainder of her water on his head anyway. Timoteo sat on her.

"It shouldn't be too hard to convince them," Timoteo mused sedately after Luche had finally cried uncle and tossed him a towel to dry himself off with. "Lal won't stop complaining about how that student of hers is driving her up the wall, and as for Reborn, well, being one of the best in the business doesn't offer him too many challenges these days. That Nero assassin's supposed to be quite skilled, isn't he?"

Luche dragged the brush through her hair and tried not to wince as it caught on snarls. "Fon? So I've heard. Can't say I've ever actually met the man, though."

If she'd had the chance, she would have liked to have looked into her Arcobaleno potentials in greater detail before setting off this train wreck, but the Trinisette wasn't known for its patience. She could only hope that the short time she spent with them would prove the others as worthy as they appeared on paper.

Timoteo noticed the look of apprehension on her face and poked her in the stomach. "It'll work out," he reassured her over her own high-pitched shriek. "If nothing else, you'll have the Vongola family behind you every step of the way, and I include Lal and Reborn in that promise whether they like it or not."

Luche smiled in spite of herself. "Thanks, Tim." Timoteo's kind heart was liable to get him in trouble some day, but she couldn't help but be grateful for it at that moment.

He glared at her in mock outrage. "I believe you meant to say Timoteo, miss boss of the Giglio Nero. Or should I start calling you Lulu again?"

Luche snorted. "Oh, please, no. Anything but that."

The moment was cut short by a frantic Vongola Mafioso bursting through the door, sounding desperately out of breath. "Boss, you—"

He caught sight of Luche and paused. "Ah, my apologies Lady Luche, I didn't mean to interrupt."

Luche flashed him a dazzling smile and discreetly slipped the brush back into her bag, inching away from Timoteo. They didn't need any unnecessary rumors starting, after all. "Please, family comes before business. Don't mind me."

The man flushed and cleared his throat before continuing. "Vongola Nono, it, uh, seems Reborn's returned from his mission and. Well." He stopped talking and stared at some point on the ceiling several inches to the right of the two Mafia bosses, sweat rolling down his face.

Timoteo sighed, threw down the towel, and picked up his staff. "Speak of the devil, eh, Luche?" he said with a weary sigh. He kissed her on the cheek. "Good luck, and don't worry. Whatever the hell he's done now is probably reason enough for me to pressure him into this Arcobaleno business. Arrivederci, my dear."

"Arrivederci," said Luche, giving him a quick hug. She watched him leave and collapsed back into her chair, pressing her palms to her forehead. "Are you happy now?" she muttered to the frantic whispers of the Trinisette, and almost slid out of her seat with relief when the voices began to die down.

Finally. Silence.

She sat there for a full ten minutes, basking in the glorious silence as she decided on her next move. She had only one option.

Luche staggered out of the chair and flung the door open. "Este!" she shouted, and her wide-eyed second in command came flying out of thin air to stand by her side.

"Yes, boss?" the blond-haired young man asked eagerly, his expression one of devout servitude.

Luche felt the corner of her mouth twitch and resisted the urge to pat Este on the head. The poor boy had taken a little too well to upholding his late father's position, and while he had all the zeal of a loyal puppy, he had none of his father's experience. It really didn't help that she could remember seeing Este in diapers.

"Do I have anything important scheduled for the rest of the day?" she asked him.

Este produced a clipboard from seemingly nowhere and began scanning it. "Well, for today you have…" he trailed off as he noticed the fatigued expression on her face. He pulled out a pen and began scribbling furiously over several lines of text.

"Today you have absolutely nothing!" he said brightly. "It's the strangest thing. Maybe you should take a lie-down, boss."

Luche actually threw her arms around the boy for that one, and pretended not to notice as his fair skin turned bright red. "Thank you a thousand times over, Este."

"S-sure thing, b-boss," he stammered, fiddling with his tie as she pulled away. "Should I tell the others not to bother you?"

Luche grinned. "Oh, yes, please." She spun around and marched off in the direction of her bedroom.

"I am going to sleep _forever_."


	2. Loyal Storm and Tranquil Rain

So, reviewers? I love you to bits and pieces, I really do. This was pretty much that one fic that I always wanted to write but doubted would get any reviews, so the fact that it DID fills me with the warm fuzzies. Thank you!

(Faves and alerts are rather encouraging as well. 'Thank you's all around!)

For some reason I have this weird obsession with Lal Mirch having been a former member of both Comsubin and the Varia. I have no idea why. It may not be entirely impossible within the limits of canon, but it's still pretty cracktastic. I just thought I'd warn you.

Finally, I feel obligated to inform you that an update this soon is never happening again. Ever. This is just one of the extremely rare, once-in-a-blue-moon instances where I actually finished more than one chapter before beginning to post the fic, and I'm going on vacation soon so I figured I should post it before I did. Hopefully, the updates will never take longer than a month, but I've learned not to make promises. Boy, have I ever.

So…yeah. Chapter two, Fon and Lal Mirch!

* * *

_Loyal Storm and Tranquil Rain_

By far the most perilous enemy any experienced hitman of the Mafia Alliance ever had to face was boredom. Making a living off of a colorful combination of fine tuned training, creativity, wit, nerves of steel, drive, and the mental capacity to cope with anything from carefully planted tripwires to homicidal ballerinas capable of flying ten feet into the air whenever they sneezed left everyday life feeling dull and somewhat pointless.

Many hitmen took up hobbies to combat the boredom: the more bloodthirsty ones tended to think not far out their usual scope of interest, such as hunting or less-than-friendly competition; the dedicated ones spent their downtime training for the next mission, honing their craft for whenever it may come; and the shrewd ones shut themselves away their rooms to research whatever they were weak on and plan accordingly. Still others gave everything to the family, including their holidays, while some took up more conventional hobbies in a desperate effort to stay in touch with their humanity.

Fon, on the other hand, chose to cook dangerously experimental, life-threatening dishes that would most likely poison anyone other than himself. And, on several memorable occasions, including himself.

The Chinese assassin sat cross-legged on his kitchen counter, sleeves and hair tied back as he sliced up what had to have been his twentieth bulb of carefully modified garlic. Several pots were already boiling on the stove, but at that moment his entire world shrank down to those minced bulbs and the bowl of dough he'd left sitting beside him.

Fon frowned and tapped the flat of the blade absentmindedly against his chin. Twenty. Would twenty be enough? How much should be concentrated? The garlic he had already treated to ensure it was dangerously strong, but just five bulbs of even the special garlic weren't likely to have the punch he required.

Then again, if he overdosed, it would probably kill him. Which, he mused, would be fairly inconvenient, as he hadn't bothered to write the recipe down yet. Without a recipe, his special gyoza experiment would never be completed, neither by himself nor whoever chose to continue his work.

Fon began cautiously dividing up the piles of garlic and sighed. Coming up with bloodless assassination techniques was such a hassle.

He had just finished measuring up amounts he was somewhat certain probably wouldn't kill him dead as Wen slipped through the kitchen door, trying everything in his power to make his entrance stealthy.

Fon gave a mental eye roll as he began making the dumplings. Boss or not, Wen had never managed to gain his top assassin's respect. Wen was a twitchy, nervous man, quick to anger but slow to follow through. Fon would admit that his boss had quite a few talents—he wouldn't have lasted long as the head of the Nero family if he hadn't—but few if any coincided with Fon's own abilities. The attempts he made to physically outmaneuver Fon were nothing less than insulting.

He indulged Wen anyway, staying focused on his work until the Nero don cleared his throat.

Fon glanced up and fixed the smaller man with a smile. "It's an honor to see you in my kitchen, sir. Is there a problem?" he asked, unfolding himself off the counter. "If you'd like, I could make you some tea. I've been boiling some water for myself here—ah, no, not this one," he corrected hastily, replacing the lid of a pot that had belched roiling waves of smoke the moment he'd uncovered it.

"No, that's fine," said Wen, eye twitching as the scent of charred flesh filled the room. Fon made a mental note of the fact that he refused to move more than a few inches out of reach of the door.

"It's just a pig," he reassured his boss cheerfully, dragging out the teapot from a burner behind the roasting animal. "Are you sure about the tea? It won't be any trouble, I assure you."

"Really, I'm fine," Wen said, the superficially calm expression on his face beginning to look strained.

Fon allowed himself a small frown as he turned to fix some tea for himself. Wen was on edge, far more so than usual, and for once the cause of unease didn't seem to be Fon's own presence in the room. "Has something gone wrong, sir?" he asked, rearranging his expression into one of polite concern as he turned to face his boss.

Wen fidgeted, and Fon's sense of foreboding grew. "Well, not—not horribly wrong, as such," he muttered. Wen took a deep breath and rallied himself, raising his eyes to meet Fon's. "No doubt you remember that we were not long ago part of the Giglio Nero family, yes?"

Fon leaned against the counter and sipped his tea. "Naturally," he agreed warily. Granted, he'd never actually met anyone associated with the Giglio Nero in person, but they weren't ones to let the Nero family forget how indebted they were to them.

So, had their dear parent family finally grown weary of their freedom and asked them to pay their dues?

"Lady Luche has been having," Wen grimaced, "_visions _again. And—well, she's asked permission to resurrect the Arcobaleno. She's, ah, well, she says she only wants the strongest, and…" He dropped his gaze and shrugged helplessly.

Don't drop the cup. Do not drop the cup. Fon felt his hands tighten instinctively around the ceramic surface.

Crushing the cup would also be a bad idea.

Apparently his discontent was showing on his face for once, because Wen made a sudden lunge for the door handle, looking as though he was desperately trying to stop himself from fleeing the room and never returning.

It wasn't as though Fon could even pretend this was family politics. The _lovely_ Miss Luche was asking him, personally, to give up his entire life for 'the good of the Trinisette.'

Eternity as an infant, or a lifetime branded as a traitor. Wonderful. If he'd ever thought it would come to this, he would have gladly settled down and become a simple chef instead. There was really only one option here, in the end.

Damn that woman, and damn the Trinisette.

Fon forced down his resentment and flashed Wen a beaming grin that for some strange reason seemed to terrify the other man even more than his brief anger had. "Naturally, I would be honored to accept," he said, and was almost certain that his voice didn't waver as he did.

Wen let out a breath neither of them realized he'd been holding. "I'll—I'll let her know right away," he said, and bowed his way out of the room.

Fon bowed in return and set the teacup back on the counter, only just registering the pain in his hands where he'd been clutching the hot ceramic. He eyed the cup despondently for a moment, then poured the contents into the sink.

He'd never advocated it before, but now seemed like a _really_ good time to take up drinking actual alcohol.

-

Lal Mirch felt the barely healed scabs on her knuckles split open as her fist struck Colonnello's jaw with an unpleasant crack, sending her student's head snapping to the side. She drove her knee into his solar plexus just as he grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm painfully behind her back as their bodies collided, his ragged breathing roaring in her ear.

Lal slammed her foot into Colonnello's instep, gave him brief credit for not even flinching from the pain, and smashed the back of her head into his. Colonnello cursed loudly and let go of her arm, staggering back a few steps, and Lal couldn't help but smirk despite her split lip. She pivoted and aimed a high kick at her student's head, but Colonnello had already regained his bearings and caught her leg, throwing her off balance and sending her to the ground.

She slammed her free foot into his knee as she landed, sending him crashing down on top of her and—damn it, she'd done it again, hadn't she? Colonnello's hands gripped tightly on to her bare arms, burning hot and slick with sweat, and for a brief moment they both froze, gasping for air. Lal found herself seeking out the fierce blue gaze of the man balanced precariously above her and felt her breath catch for reasons she was quite certain were training related.

Colonnello's bright blond hair was soaking wet and plastered to his forehead, sweat and blood (no doubt some of it hers) mixing with the golden locks and doing absolutely nothing to detract from the young man's handsome features. Colonnello's lips were parted from a desperate need for oxygen but still turned upward in his telltale reckless grin, equal parts challenging and captivating, and—

And—

Oh, _hell_.

Lal scowled to herself before throwing all her weight to the side, knocking her student off-balance and reversing their positions. Colonnello, to her annoyance, didn't seem nearly as bothered by their proximity as she'd been. She gathered her wits together.

"I can't help but notice that you haven't been at your best today, useless student," she said, mentally wincing over how breathless her voice still sounded. Damn it, she was a professional, a little spar like this shouldn't wear her out.

Unless it was—no, clearly it was the sparring. Of course.

Colonnello grinned apologetically in reply. "I guess I've just been a little distracted, kora."

"By what?" she growled, eyes narrowing in exasperation. If there was one thing that pissed off Lal above all others, it was half-assed effort. Colonnello was an adept enough pupil, but she sometimes had to question his dedication.

Then again, he hadn't been the only one distracted recently—

Shut up.

Colonnello coughed nervously and looked away from her. "Um."

"Colonnello," she snapped. "Straightforward answers. We've talked about this."

Was that a blush on her useless student's face, or was he just that overheated?

"It's just, uh." He licked his lips and began again. "Well I—I guess I just think it's really, uh, fascinating that the Varia uniforms have so much leather, kora."

Well, Lal was _definitely_ blushing. In fact, she was pretty sure her mouth was hanging open, too.

If she didn't die from embarrassment in the next few minutes, she was murdering Tyr. This was the most impractical dress code ever.

Lal felt her training instincts take over and abruptly rolled over again and threw Colonnello off the cliff they'd been sparring by, ignoring his startled yelp as she did so.

He'd survived worse.

Lal flopped down on her back and groaned. She didn't need this right now. She already had enough trouble balancing between the Varia and Comsubin, and her reckless pupil and his inane attraction to her was not helping.

"Am I interrupting something?" The cool, cultured tones of exactly the last person Lal wanted to talk to at that moment interrupted her train of thought.

A leather boot entered into Lal's line of vision. She scowled darkly.

"Once I can move, I am shooting you in the face, Tyr," she said, not bothering to get up to greet the swordsman. "Also, you have crappy taste in uniforms."

"Duly noted," Tyr said, taking a seat on the ground beside her. He raised a thin eyebrow. "I can't help but notice that you aren't wearing all of yours at the moment, though. Could that have something to do with it, perhaps?"

Lal groaned again and dragged a handkerchief out of the pocket of her too damn tight to be practical skirt. "Don't patronize me," she snapped, mopping the sweat off her face. "Leather doesn't breathe, you miserable bastard, there's no way I'm fighting in full Varia regalia if I don't have to. What do you want, anyway? I thought the meeting wasn't for another two hours."

Tyr's mouth pursed, his face suddenly devoid even of the wry not-quite-humor that was all he could ever bring himself to offer by way of friendly conversation. "This isn't about the meeting."

Lal frowned and tilted her head up to get a better look at the swordsman's expression. Tyr looked unusually grave and, if she wasn't mistaken, the slightest bit resentful.

"Great. Who died?" she asked, rolling her eyes. A thought occurred to her. "Did Reborn kill them?"

Tyr snorted and shook his head. "Nothing like that, at least not that I've heard. No, this concerns the Giglio Nero family."

Ah, yes, charming 'little sister' Luche and her psychic network. Wonderful. What now, was the apocalypse coming?

"Lovely," Lal said, propping herself up on her elbows. Her body protested the action vehemently. She ignored it. "Just what does her ladyship want from the Varia, anyway?"

Tyr looked away from her. "Not the Varia. You."

Lal blinked. "Me. For what, exactly?"

Tyr sighed, his voice strained with dispassionate anger. "It seems she wants to resurrect the Arcobaleno, for whatever reason."

Lal's mind went blank.

The Arcobaleno? Seriously? Now? And _Lal_ of all people was a candidate?

Damn it, didn't she already have enough commitment issues?

"Well, shit," she said succinctly, and Tyr gave a short bark of humorless laughter.

"Well put," he said, slapping her shoulder with his remaining hand and sending her back to the ground. "She expects an answer within the month."

Lal glared at him as she struggled back into a sitting position. "I'm sure she does. How _generous_ of her to give us a choice. Like any subordinate of Timoteo's is going to say no to little sister Luche." She eyed the swordsman's dour expression. "What's got you so worked up, anyway? She didn't ask you, did she?"

Tyr scowled and turned away from her. "Hardly."

Lal continued to stare at him curiously, mind racing. What the hell was his problem? It wasn't as though he was the one who'd have to deal with this stupid fiasco—

Ah.

Lal felt laughter bubbling up in her throat and grinned at Tyr. "Don't tell me you're actually jealous she didn't ask for you."

Tyr glanced at her before giving a haughty toss of his head. "Of course not. Only seven Arcobaleno can exist, so obviously she can't recruit every single qualified individual for the job. Certainly not too many from the same family."

Lal's grin widened. "You're jealous. You're jealous that I'm the one who's getting turned into a freaking baby and not you. You know, I was going to ask why Timoteo didn't come to tell me in person, but your reaction makes it more than worth it."

The Varia leader's expression had become downright murderous, much to Lal's delight. Livid Tyr was a rare treat—the man took pride in the fact that he had the emotional range of a brick wall most of the time, and took just as much amusement from riling up Lal herself. This was well-earned payback.

"Timoteo had someone else to take care of—" he began, and was cut off by Lal's howl of laughter.

"_She asked for Reborn too_?!" she cackled, collapsing back to the ground and clutching her sides. "No wonder you're so bitter! Left out in the cold with no one to keep you company, poor Tyr!"

Tyr looked ready to tear her head off. He drew himself up to his full height. "It's just as well that I wasn't asked. I'm only months away from becoming Sword Emperor, I'm sure of it, and I couldn't have afforded to have all that effort go to waste."

Lal clamped her hand over her mouth and took a few calming breaths to rid herself of the hysterics before speaking. "I really wish you'd give up on that."

Tyr raised an eyebrow. "One would think you of all people would understand the importance of rank."

Lal sat up and frowned at him. "Rank, yes, but we use good old fashioned promotions here. You're talking about killing some guy you've never met before for a title that other people will instantly start trying to kill _you_ for. How is that at all practical?"

"It's a matter of respect and pride," Tyr snapped. "Neither Timoteo nor Reborn have ever questioned it, so I really wish you'd stop."

"Think of the Varia, would you!" Lal shouted, finally staggering to her feet and glaring at her superior.

Tyr snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

Lal flushed angrily, pacing back and forth. "I'll admit I haven't exactly been faithful to my duties as Rain Guardian, but at least I'm not the leader! You get this title and then what? Someday you're going to get old, Tyr, and then some cocky brat's going to get the best of you and infest the Varia with psychopaths!" She whirled on him. "Is that what you want our organization to be remembered as? A merry band of lunatics?"

Tyr only looked at her, impassive and cold, and Lal found her eyes drawn to the ruined stump that remained of his left hand. She let out a sigh of frustration and stormed off to put on the rest of her uniform. "You men and your damned pride," she muttered, shoving on her boots.

It'd been an accident. Hell, neither of them had even been particularly careless on that mission, even if they'd been nothing but teenagers at the time. But the loss of a hand was a crippling blow for any man, and practically a death sentence for a swordsman like Tyr. He'd spent the better part of a decade trying to prove to himself that he was just as capable maimed as he'd been whole. The most pathetic part, in Lal's own private opinion, was that Tyr himself was the only one who needed proving to—Timoteo, Reborn, and she herself hadn't thought any less of him after the incident.

Well, in Reborn's case that was because he hadn't thought anything of Tyr before the incident either, but that was just Reborn.

Lal had managed to throw on her jacket and was just working on the gloves when Colonnello finally clambered back over the cliff, collapsing to the ground. "Hey, Tyr," he muttered, waving vaguely at the older man.

Lal tossed a water bottle in his general direction. "Training's over for today, useless student. I have something to take care of."

Tyr glanced between them and smiled like a serpent. Lal felt her stomach drop. Crap.

"You're not going to tell him, Lal Mirch?" he asked innocently. "What a shame. This could be the last time you see the boy, after all."

Colonnello shot up in alarm and stared at Lal, blue eyes wide. "What? What does he mean by that, kora?"

Lal was not going to punch her superior. She'd been trained better than that.

Really, she had.

"I might be called away on business," she managed to get out through gritted teeth. Then, because she was feeling generous and it wasn't Colonnello's fault, she added, "Arcobaleno business."

Colonnello looked blank. "What about rainbows now, kora?"

Between his (_completely professional_) relationship with her and his antagonistic childhood friendship with Reborn, it was amazing how often Lal forgot Colonnello wasn't technically mafia. With all the connections he had, she was surprised he'd stayed out of the loop this long.

"I might have to go work for the Giglio Nero family," she clarified. No need to tell him about the unfortunate side effects, after all. "If I do, I won't be returning to Comsubin."

For the briefest moment, the look on Colonnello's face was nothing short of devastated, but he covered it up well and Lal pretended it'd been a trick of the light.

"Oh," he said with a strained smile. "A promotion, right? Well, congratulations, kora."

Lal nodded tightly. "Thank you."

Tyr looked on the verge of laughter, which probably meant that Luche's presumable premonition was right and the apocalypse really was coming. Lal, grateful for the distraction, spun around and grabbed her superior by the arm and began dragging him away.

"Vongola Nono probably wants us back as soon as possible," she called behind her, quickening her pace as much as she could with Tyr weighing her down. "The meeting's not for another month, so I'll be sure to arrange things with Comsubin to get you a new tutor. Best of luck, Colonnello!"

"Um. Yeah," she thought she heard her (now former!) student say, sounding dejected. "Bye."

Lal let out a sigh of relief as she continued walking. Free. Finally free.

Free to…get trapped into something new entirely. Free from the hardest working student she'd ever had. Free from someone she could have—

"You're not even going to give the boy a proper goodbye?" Tyr asked, thankfully interrupting her thoughts before they could get any further. "How heartless, Lal Mirch."

Lal growled and tightened her grip on his arm. "Shut up, Tyr."

The Arcobaleno. Seriously.

What the _hell_.


	3. Shielding Thunder and Healing Sun

I wrote this instead of the two essays I have due tomorrow. You lot had better be grateful.

…Okay, I probably would have done that anyway. Technically, I did do that anyway. All-nighter, here I come.

Reviewers! You're awesome. So very, very awesome. Together, we must spread the Arcobaleno love.

Verde and Reborn are up! (Skull and Viper's time will come. Hopefully soon-ish. Especially since, y'know, they all have yet to meet or anything. Geez, how long is this thing going to end up being?)

* * *

_Shielding Thunder and Healing Sun_

Anyone who had ever met Verde would acknowledge he was not a social man, but most would be surprised to find out that he downright hated people.

Yes, he understood the necessity of people in the grand scheme of things, particularly due to the fact that he had to interact with them on a regular basis in order to continue funding all his projects, but he'd never understood the attraction of the human race. Why should he have to deal with flawed, messy, judgmental and emotional _people _when he had a world of reliable numbers, mechanical wonders and fascinating chemicals (that admittedly sometimes exploded on him, yet still managed to be less volatile than human beings) to live in?

He knew for a fact that Luche had only given him the entire basement of her impressive mansion as his workspace in order to keep him as isolated from the rest of the Giglio Nero family as possible, but it was the one thing his boss had ever done for him that he genuinely appreciated. Luche didn't want him dealing with people, and neither did Verde himself.

Speaking of his charming boss, Verde often found himself confused as to why he was even working for the woman in the first place. Luche hated him. He despised her. By all accounts it didn't make sense, but for all that Agosto of the Calcassa family and various other well-paying customers appreciated his work, only Luche seemed willing to fund him around the clock, provided he stayed locked away in his basement. He deeply suspected that it had something to do with mafia politics and the like, but if it was made of flesh and blood he'd never bothered to see how it worked, so he couldn't be sure.

This was the only reason he didn't attempt to stab the woman to death with his screwdriver when she so very rudely interrupted his latest project by grabbing it out of his hands.

The fact that she'd brought her hulking brute of a bodyguard along with her _may _have factored into it somewhere as well.

"Verde," Luche said, and he was pleased to note that her smile was far too strained to be the diabolically sweet display she chose to show to practically everyone else.

Behind her, her bodyguard (a particularly unrefined, violent, scarred wreck and presumed American war veteran by the name of Jonathan Cain, who was quite possibly the only member of the Giglio Nero family whose membership made even _less_ sense than Verde's) cracked his knuckles threateningly, while her second-in-command Este peered around Jonathan's massive bulk to gape at Verde as though he were some sort of zoo display.

"Luche," Verde returned, his eyes leaving Jonathan and Este to stare pointedly at the unfinished device she held in her hands. "This is…a surprise."

He settled back in his chair and nodded towards the other two men. "But really, bringing down the mutated caveman and yapping guard dog with you just to deal with one harmless scientist? It's almost as though you don't trust me."

Luche's already strained smile began cracking at the edges. "Wouldn't that be unfortunate?" she asked, swinging Verde's project back and forth absentmindedly. "The last three attempts on my life within the recesses of your lab must have been nothing but untimely coincidences, then." She paused for a moment and peered closer at the device in her hands. "I'm sure it's just that I'm an ignorant woman completely unfamiliar with advanced technology, but this thing looks lethal, Verde. Tell me, is it one of mine, or something you're selling to one of the many people who want me dead?"

Verde gritted his teeth. "It's not much of anything right now, Luche, because it's very much incomplete." His eye twitched as she started swinging it again. "And _fragile_."

"Pity," she said absently, then turned to her entourage. "Jonathan, Este, I apologize for dragging you down here with me, but it seems you're not needed. Thank you for your support, you're free to leave."

Both men immediately began to protest.

"B-but, boss, you can't!" Este began, before Jonathan's rumbling bass overpowered the boy's stammering completely.

"Don't think you want me to do that," the bodyguard growled, eyeing Verde with open hostility. Jonathan's Italian, Verde noted with some amusement, was just as rough as it'd been when Verde had first joined the family, eight years ago. "Can't trust 'em, you know. Scientists. 'Specially not that weedy little bastard."

"Thank you, Jonathan," Luche said firmly. "But Verde is my subordinate, after all." She beamed at the surly American. "Just like Este. Just like you."

Verde closed his eyes and comforted himself with thoughts of strangling his ever so charming boss.

Jonathan continued to grumble under his breath, and Este looked close to cardiac arrest (if only, Verde wished; at the very least it'd be a more dignified death than the brat's old man had gotten), but they shuffled out regardless. Verde smiled mockingly at his remaining guest and gestured to an overturned crate.

"Please, have a seat," he said, facing her properly for the first time and folding his arms across his chest. "I must congratulate you, Lady Luche," he added as she carefully inspected the crate before settling down. "It seems you're finally within reach of your lifelong dream of becoming a living caricature. Why, in only a few weeks' time you may have no genuine personality whatsoever."

"Verde, if you understood the finer nuances of human interaction even remotely, you wouldn't be stuck working for me," Luche replied, placing his project in her lap. "We all have our coping mechanisms. Yours is rejection. Mine is…adaptation."

"Yes, you've adapted very well to becoming about as plastic as a Barbie doll," he said, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He smirked. "Was your dismissal of the oaf and the toddler supposed to fill me with ingratiated hope that my loving boss still trusts me? Because I regret to say it didn't work."

Luche smiled grimly and tossed Verde's project up in the air. Verde felt his heart leap into his throat and started forward in alarm, but Luche snatched it back mid-fall, cradling it to her chest and preventing any damage from coming to it.

She waved the device around gently. "As long as you love your work more than you hate me, Verde, I have nothing to fear."

Verde bit down a snarl of rage and slumped down in his chair, unwilling to acknowledge his psychological defeat. "Just tell me what you want," he snapped, turning away from her to glare at his work table.

He heard her sigh. "There's an excellent chance I've gone completely insane," Luche murmured. She clapped her hands. "Verde, I am going to give you a once in a lifetime opportunity."

Verde snorted and reluctantly faced her again. "The last time you said that I ended up bound to you and your damn family for the rest of my foreseeable existence. What could you possibly offer me that would be worth whatever price you want me to pay this time?"

"A place as my Thunder Arcobaleno," Luche said.

Verde blinked. Stared blankly at his boss for several minutes. Blinked again. Cleaned off his glasses. Started staring again.

"You're not serious," he said finally.

Luche looked as though she'd swallowed a lemon. "Unfortunately, I am. I would never sink so low as to claim that I actually like you, Verde, but you are the best and possibly only option I have as user of the Thunder flame."

Verde stared at her for another minute before turning back to his work table, trying to stop the tremors in his hands.

"Verde?" Luche asked cautiously, when the first cackle of maniacal laughter escaped his lips. Within moments it had escalated into a howl.

"Yes, well, I'm going to take that as your acceptance," his boss muttered as Verde's psychotic cackling continued. "Lunatic." He heard her exit the room.

It took him a while to calm down, gasping for breath and still grinning maniacally. He ran a hand through his hair.

The Arcobaleno. God, all that _power_. And his boss—his wonderful, desperate, fool-hardy boss—was offering it to him, free of charge.

Oh, Luche was going to regret this one, he thought to himself, still grinning so widely it had begun to hurt his face. He looked around for his unfinished project, and the grin abruptly vanished.

Luche had taken it with her.

That damn _bitch_.

-

Reborn took a long, soothing sip of his espresso before setting it on Timoteo's desk and leaning back in his seat with a contented sigh. He folded his hands behind his head and took another glance at the clock on the wall.

Half an hour late. Hmm. Whatever Luche had wanted really must've been urgent, then.

Reborn set his fedora next to his coffee and began drumming his fingers absently on the desk.

What were the odds that Timoteo had yet to hear about how the assassination had gone?

Reborn picked up his hat again, dusted off the brim and set it back on his head before sifting through the hastily completed paperwork on his boss's desk. How Timoteo managed to keep up with both maintaining the tenuous balance within the Mafia Alliance and dealing with the antics of the psychopaths within the Vongola family itself was beyond him.

Hah. Who was he fooling? Timoteo had definitely heard about it.

Reborn winced mentally at the thought of his impending reprimand and continued sorting through the papers to keep his mind off it. The hitman's brow furrowed as he came to the family's finances. Apparently his boss wasn't keeping up with everything as well as he'd thought if the Ninth couldn't even do basic math.

Reborn had managed to rewrite practically the entire report by the time Timoteo finally burst into the room not fifteen minutes later, out of breath and slightly wild-eyed.

"This really is pathetic, Tim," Reborn said, eyes still fixed on the paper. "None of these numbers are even close to right." He frowned and squinted closer. "Is that supposed to be a seven? It looks like a mutated two. And it's not even supposed to be a seven anyway, that clearly adds up to nine." He finally chanced a glance up at his boss. "Have you considered going on vacation?"

Timoteo's expression was an even split between long-suffering and homicidal. "You," he growled. "You are going to be the death of me someday." He blinked and seemed to notice his surroundings for the first time. "And you're sitting in my chair."

"You weren't using it," Reborn pointed out, neatly jotting down the last few numbers and setting the finances aside. He held up his cup of espresso. "Coffee?"

"Hah," Timoteo said weakly, looking suddenly drained and sitting down on a paper-free corner of his desk. "Seriously though, Reborn, was any of that really necessary?"

"Not at all," said Reborn. "But I'd like you to take note of the fact that no one died who wasn't supposed to."

Timoteo groaned and put his face in his hands. "I stopped reading the report after it mentioned the horrible fake mustache and hideous Hawaiian shirt."

Reborn smirked. "Yes, well, the mustache I'll give you, but the shirt was yours."

The Ninth shot him a withering look. "Why are you stealing my shirts?"

Reborn smiled at Timoteo with an innocence he'd never possessed. "As a service. They really are hideous. Stop wearing them. When you have kids, you're going to give them epileptic seizures."

"I am your boss, and I will keep all the hideous Hawaiian shirts I want," Timoteo said seriously. What little anger remained in his expression drained out and was replaced by exhaustion. "Are you really that bored, Reborn?"

"Yes," the hitman answered flatly. He glared into his espresso. "It's been over five years since I've had anything even remotely close to a challenge." He shook his head. "I don't blame Dorn for retiring, and Wendigo was just getting old, but you'd think that Russian bastard would at least be more active with those two out of the way." He frowned. "You think the Calcassa family's up to something?"

Timoteo laughed bitterly. "Almost definitely. You should have seen Agosto in the meeting today—he wasn't even trying to hide it."

Reborn narrowed his eyes. "You didn't tell me Luche summoned the Calcassa family as well."

Timoteo sighed. "Mainly because she didn't tell me, either."

Reborn felt himself tense up at that. Overall, the Vongola family's sentiments towards Luche were…_polarizing_ to say the least, but it was no secret that she loved the Ninth like a brother. The day Luche failed to warn Timoteo about someone like Agosto Calcassa showing up at an emergency meeting was the day Hell froze over.

And Timoteo had let him off far too easily. Something had happened.

Reborn set down his coffee and looked his boss dead in the eye. "What exactly was that meeting about, Timoteo?"

The Vongola Ninth's expression went completely blank. The two of them locked gazes for a full minute before Timoteo broke eye contact and nodded towards Reborn's espresso. "You know, I think I could use a cup after all." He slid off his desk. "Just give me a minute to let the kitchen staff know—"

"_Timoteo_," Reborn growled, half rising from the chair. "What happened?"

Timoteo froze halfway to his office door. "It wasn't just Agosto," he said quietly, not turning to face the hitman. "Santo Estraneo and the Nero family don were summoned as well."

Oh, shit.

Reborn flopped back into the chair, his hand straying to his gun. "So let me get this straight," he said slowly. "Luche actually contacted and _forced into the same room_ all five mafia dons capable of controlling the Da—"

"Reborn," Timoteo snapped, turning to glare at him. "That name—"

Reborn rolled his eyes. "Right, right, speak not the name." His hand left the gun and waved vaguely in his boss's direction. "You were saying?"

Timoteo smiled bitterly. "Was I?" he asked, crossing the room to sit back on his desk. He started shuffling through his paperwork. "You don't want to hear this."

Reborn yanked the paper out of his boss's hands and slammed it on the desk. "I do _now_."

Timoteo stared at his bookcase as though it would give him the answer to all life's questions. "Arcobaleno," he muttered.

Reborn snorted. "Ha. Funny." Timoteo still refused to look at him. The hitman felt a chill run down his spine. "You're not serious."

The Vongola Ninth's gaze dropped to the floor.

Damn. And Reborn had actually been one of the few who _liked_ Luche up until this point.

"I don't suppose she actually gave us a choice?" he asked, mind racing. There had to be a way out of this.

Timoteo winced. "She did, but…" he trailed off and shrugged.

Reborn laughed incredulously. "But what? But you aren't? Do you really want to get rid of me that badly? Look, I'll admit there have been one or two incidents that got a little out of hand but—"

"She said the world's going to end!" Timoteo shouted. He started pacing the office. "Luche of all people wouldn't do this if she weren't desperate, and this isn't just about her, it's about everyone. Reborn, I wouldn't—this is important. And if this is all I can do to help, I will."

Reborn took a few deep, calming breaths that failed to help at all. "Do you know the definition of 'messiah complex', Tim?" he asked. "Little sister or not, Luche takes advantage of you. Admit it, she didn't ask any of the other dons for their Da—sorry, _best hitman_, or whatever the hell you want to call it instead."

Timoteo grinned slyly at him. Reborn frowned, slightly unnerved. Timoteo didn't _do_ sly—he did ruthless when he had to, reluctantly wrathful, righteous anger, but sly?

Clearly, Luche was a terrible influence.

"She asked the Nero family for Fon," the Ninth said calmly.

Oh God damn it.

Reborn pulled down his hat, gritted his teeth, and wished for the days when Luche secretly being a conniving, manipulative bitch actually benefitted _him_.

"Right," he said with a sigh, getting up from the chair. "I guess I'd better give this back, then."

He pulled the Vongola Sun ring off his index finger and dropped it on the desk. Timoteo winced.

"Reborn…" he began.

"I'm sure there's more to it," said Reborn, shoving past his boss and making a direct beeline for the hall, "but you can tell me later. I need…air."

"Reborn—" Timoteo called again as the hitman slammed the door.

Reborn counted slowly to ten and then headed off for the Vongola training grounds.

He _really_ needed to shoot something.


End file.
